


baby baby baby light my way

by JessesGirl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Tried, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, these two are ruining my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessesGirl/pseuds/JessesGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vanessa knows, as a matter of course, that every so often Wilson has go to somewhere in the middle of the night, to handle something that is more or less unsavory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby baby baby light my way

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will finish that Kingpin!Vanessa fic. One day. Until then, welcome to whatever this is. Because it is my doom to write Fisk/Vanessa fluff in any and all varieties, apparently. (I'm sorry.) 
> 
> TL; DR: These two are ruining my life.

Vanessa knows, as a matter of course, that every so often Wilson has go to somewhere in the middle of the night, to handle something that is more or less unsavory. He always leaves a note if he doesn't expect to be back by the time she wakes up - he’s gotten in the habit lately of drawing silly little doodles on them to make her smile – and he tends to make her breakfast in bed if he is. It’s not the worst compromise in the world.

So it's fairly abnormal when a loud crash wakes her up from a sound sleep, and generally cause for concern. She blearily looks at the clock by the bed and squints at it until the numbers resolve themselves. 3:30am. ( _Ugh_.) The light’s on in the bathroom, but since the room isn't immediately flooded with the entirely ridiculous number of security guards he’s put on his staff since she started basically living in the penthouse, she assumes there’s no imminent threat and fumbles at the foot of the bed for a robe.

She pushes the door open to find Wilson with his sleeves rolled up and a pile of medical supplies haphazardly strewn on the counter in front of him. He’s bleeding from a nasty-looking gash along his cheekbone, but it’s not enough to make her think the blood on his shirt front’s all his. _Good_ , a vicious part of her mind supplies, distantly.

He looks at her, startled, with an expression for all the world like a child who’s been caught doing something naughty.

Vanessa wonders - not for the first time - why he hardly ever bothers to wake her up when this kind of thing happens. To his credit, Wilson is _remarkably_ forthcoming about all of his work activities - both the boring and illicit varieties - and really will tell her anything she wants to know about them. Even if whatever she wants to know about is gross or terrible or just really, really illegal. Sometimes she doesn't ask because she's tired, or the subject is dull, or she can tell that what he really needs more than anything is a scotch and a back rub, but she always knows she _could_ , and it's enough.

Still, she has a sneaking suspicion that he doesn't want to wake her up because he thinks there's a finite number of times he can shove her face in this, that eventually she's going to say _enough; no, thank you_ , and leave. And maybe it's true that she _should_ feel that way; maybe a different kind of woman would have declared herself well out of the drama that night Wesley showed up at her door and told her that Wilson needed her.

Instead, she just wishes she knew how to say _I'm never leaving, I promise_ , in a way that he would believe.

He rumbles something that she thinks is meant to be an apology in her general direction, but the words are muffled and the slightest bit slurred so she can't quite make them out. It doesn't matter, really; they've done this before, and if she doesn't _hear_ him telling her that he's sorry for getting blood all over their hand towels, she doesn't have to get angry about the fact that he's _apologizing_ to her for being in pain. It's efficient. Sort of.

It's all moot anyway, as his hand is already reaching for hers and clinging tight. Which, in their shared language of saying _everything_ without having to say _anything_ , is generally his way of conceding the point without ever actually having to admit to it out loud. She'd been surprised to learn exactly how tactile a person Wilson Fisk is when he's allowed to be, how much he actually _loves_ physical contact, but only trusts a very specific (tiny) subset of people enough to indulge in it. These days, it's his first instinct, always, to hold out his hand for hers, a gesture that makes her heart turn over every time.

By the time Vanessa's sifted through the small mountain of medical supplies that have exploded from their bathroom cabinet - which is basically prepared to treat anything short of that zombie apocalypse virus from _The Walking Dead_ \- the worst of the bleeding seems to have stopped. She lets him lift her up onto the counter, so she can be something closer to eye level, and there's a practiced feeling to their movements that she doesn't want to think about too hard. The bathroom countertops are so wide she can actually sit cross-legged if she wants to, and while she knows that the room wasn't designed with this purpose in mind - or rather, she hopes it wasn't - at least it makes things a little easier in these kinds of situations. Sorting out the injuries that Wilson comes home with usually takes a while, even when he's pretending whatever happened is really not that big a deal - but the fact that he's not arguing about her helping this time is another kind of tacit admission all its own. Instead, his hands settle against the countertop on either side of her hips, and he huffs out a frustrated noise as his forehead drops to rest against her collarbone.

It's as close as he'll get to asking for comfort, so she wraps her arms around his shoulders for a long minute.

He hates this so much, this business of his. He loves where it will end, of course - they both do, his ideas for the city's future are good ones, and while his methods are not necessarily the ones she would have chosen, she sees the _need_ for it, for a person like Wilson, who faces doing horrible things without flinching in the name of something _better_ \- but he finds the process distasteful. He hates these reminders of the violence he is capable of, that he is not always the man he wants to see himself as, or the kind of man that he thinks she deserves. He hates that this isn't the first time this scene has played out between them, and he hates the knowledge that it will, inevitably, happen again.

Vanessa kisses his temple and breathes through a complicated wave of emotion. Wilson dislikes being fussed over, even by her, so as much as she wants to say _a lot of things_ in this moment, she lets the quiet win out. She thinks, instead, about the person that did this to him, what she would like to do to them in turn. What sort of monster that must make _her_. Whether that ought to bother her more than it does.

Eventually, she tilts his chin a bit to peer critically at his face. The cut is still oozing sluggishly and the gentle pressure of her finger against his cheek is enough to make him hiss. It's actually much deeper than she'd originally assumed, enough that she now understands why Wilson's made no attempt to insist she go back to bed. It looks like it hurts like hell, really, but there's no point in suggesting they maybe take a trip to the emergency room tonight. He has a deeply ingrained terror about hospitals, and would _much_ rather take his chances here at home with her and her mostly passable first aid skills any day.

It's a bit unsettling, that she's gotten so good at using skin adhesives and gauze. (And Vanessa really does try her best to not think about the _why_ of that too closely.) She supposes it's art, of a sort, though certainly not the kind she learned to appreciate in school, and nothing that makes her feel anything, beyond than a certain stomach-churning nausea. But she hasn't thrown up since that first time - when there was a _lot_ more blood and Wilson had nearly passed out - therefore this is, in its way, a sort of progress.

So she swallows hard, and does her best. The situation's not quite dire enough to require her incredibly inelegant attempts at stitches (barely), so she makes do with adhesives and butterfly bandages. She swipes antiseptic over the angry scrapes on the knuckles of his right hand, and quietly frets about the fact that he's so obviously favoring his left side, thanks to the cluster of darkening bruises along his ribs. She knows better than to ask about how badly it's hurting. He’ll tell her it’s fine, no matter what the actual answer is and any debate over exactly _how many_ ribs he's cracked is probably best saved until tomorrow.

She makes him throw the (disgusting) shirt in the trash. It's not worth explaining to the cleaners.

Wilson kisses her palm when she's finished. His face is drawn and ashen - he doesn’t like to take painkillers unless it’s basically life or death because he gets so anxious over feeling wooly-headed - and all she wants to do is take him to bed and wrap him in every blanket they have, even if that would count as "fussing". But he's looking up at her, with exhaustion all over his features and still so much love in his eyes that it stops her breath.

Truthfully, this isn’t that strange – Wilson spends a _lot_ of time looking at her with varying degrees of adoration, and it always makes something in her chest feel warm. But, sometimes – like now – when he looks at her as though he can’t quite believe she’s real, that she’s something he gets to keep, it makes her want to cry.

Wilson Fisk is many things that are perhaps (probably) terrible, but he is also the man who lays his heart at her feet every day, who trusts her with everything he has, who treats her as his _partner_ , not his savior or his confessor or his prize. The (probably) terrible things really don't matter so much next to all of that in her opinion, and if that makes her (probably) terrible too, she honestly doesn't care. 

He’ll never listen to her _say_ any of that, though, let alone believe it, so she settles for _come to bed, love_ and hopes the rest of it translates somehow.

By way of reply, he leans up and kisses her, soft and slow. Rationally, Vanessa knows this is probably a terrible idea – it’s pushing five in the morning and they’re both exhausted and he’s shaking slightly in spite of himself. She still presses closer against him anyway, as he licks into her mouth with a growl. Sometimes on nights like this they both need it, a reminder that they’re still safe and whole and together, both by chance and by _choice_. 

They’re panting against each other’s mouths by the time he slides his hands around her waist and lifts her off the bathroom counter entirely. Vanessa not-so-secretly _loves_ this, these random reminders of how stupidly _strong_ Wilson is, how easily he could manhandle her if he really wanted to, and how reverently he touches her _all the time_ instead.

She whimpers and winds her legs around his hips, and that’s what breaks the spell, because the sudden shift in position has him jerking backward and hissing in pain again, ostensibly from the couple of cracked ribs he swears he _doesn't have_. He actually almost drops her – he doesn’t of course, because he just _wouldn't_ , not  _ever_  – before righting himself and ungracefully depositing her down onto the floor with another wince and a grumbled swear.

It's something of a mood killer, obviously - more so when Vanessa starts giggling and can't stop, because she's tired, and her head's spinning, and their life together is just _ridiculous_ sometimes. Wilson cocks an eyebrow at her, but doesn't comment, though his hands settle back against her waist and tug her close again, his fingers twining into the fabric of her robe. 

They stay that way for a long time - until her laughter stops and his breathing steadies and they can manage to let go of each other. (Vanessa's not sure when they became this codependent, but it doesn't bother her as much as she once thought it would.) She promises Wilson they can spend the rest of the day in bed in exchange for him breaking his no-painkiller rule just this once, so that after they manage to sleep for a bit they might have  _some_ chance of actually doing whatever it was he had in mind before. He actually barks a laugh at that, and kisses the top of her head. But he doesn't argue with her when she holds out a pill bottle, either, in one of those quiet gestures of trust that makes her heart do something complicated in her chest.

And when he finally curls around her in bed and buries his face in her hair in the strange, almost suffocating position he _loves_ to sleep in that she will _never_ understand, Vanessa just presses closer and thinks that the rest of it - late nights and blood and an endless parade of new bathroom linens and 5am debates about the pharmaceutical merits of Percocet, all of it - is worth it, for this.

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from the U2 song _Ultra Violet (Light My Way)_ which you should all listen to immediately if you've never heard it. (And even if you have. It's so good.)


End file.
